Amore, more, ore, re
by Kimmae
Summary: 'Even with all this "power" that being king gives me, I never got to hold my own life in my hands. I wonder how she felt holding hers.'
1. Part 1,1

_Consider EA property of Dragon Age and other such silly affiliates disclaimed. I do but engage the humble art of fan fiction that is fine and delicate and... I need to start publishing original materials._

_- Then -_

She came to end it with me. That's the clincher. Of all the memories, this is the most dour.

Of course, I didn't know that was what she intended at the time. The way she walked up to me, you'd think she was going to ask me more about tactic, or maybe about my favourite colour, I don't know. Not..._ that_. But looking back on it, I should have known that I couldn't read her even if I had a manual. She was always good with words. With people. Some would say manipulative; I personally prefer _efficacious_. Well, at least I did after I heard Wynne use the word.

So as she walked up to me like she had important business to press, I decided had to get the first word in—she was always drove the conversation, and even though she could run circles around me smarts-wise, I had to at least _try_. I needed to show her my worth, no matter how much she told me she saw it. Or maybe I had to prove it to myself. Yes, that's probably more likely.

My nerves turned to jelly once I opened my big mouth. "So all this time spent together... you know: the tragedy, the brushes with death, the constant battles with the whole Blight looming over us... will you miss it once it's over?"

I don't know why I decided to start there. In fact, I'm pretty sure I had a different route picked, even before she made her way over from Wynne's tent. My mouth must have chickened out on my brain. Again.

All it took to make me blush was her cocked eyebrow. And—there it was—the nervous laugh. Morrigan once tried training me not to do that stupid laugh. Gave me a shock every time I did. Nicest thing she ever did for me.

"Well... no, that's not what I meant. I just mean... travelling the high road, you know? Looking out for darkspawn, taking out rogue bandits, solving everyone else's problems." Once again, I evaded my own point.

She nearly made me sigh in relief when she started talking. "I suppose... in a way. I can't imagine what my life will be like once this is over."

"You mean you wouldn't want to return home?"

"No. To be honest, after going on these... _adventures_ with you, going back home would be caging myself in. I would want to see my family, of course—maybe I could bring some prosperity to them—but I couldn't stay there forever. Maybe I should try rebuilding the Wardens... In any case, my mother's life is where I belong."

She never spoke much about her mother. It gave me an excuse to fall into one of those emotionally-laden silences to cover up my inability to form sentences. But then she shattered it like it was made of shoddy glass. "Why, Alistair? Would you miss it?"

I had to act fast. The faster I went, though, the worse I seemed to be at saying what I intended to. So I resorted to darting my eyes elsewhere and bumbling a bit before I got my words out. "I would actually. I would miss—er... this."

One of her playful grins pulled at her lips. "Camping off the highway? Making your waste in the bushes? Dining on roast squirrel and rubber mushrooms?"

"Don't sell yourself short—your roast squirrel is to _die_ for."

When she laughed, I felt like there was no Blight, that the arl didn't intend to put me forward as king. Her laugh helped me forget all my troubles, including my never-ending, internal feud with myself over the complications any relationship with her would have, regardless of my potential... _kinglydom_, or whatever.

"I would certainly miss... _this_... the most as well," she said.

Looking her in the eye was not easy. I'm not a total hermit, really, but women... I never was savvy with this sort of stuff. And I knew she was so much better at talking and reading people, too. At one point I commented to someone that she could probably _stare_ the archdemon to death, or at least make it scamper back underground with its tail between its legs. So you could imagine how abashed I felt when she gave me those eyes—the kind that were hard and soft at the same time—like she was taking me apart, little by little, looking right through me and reading my mind.

So I just went for it. Not like a lion tackling a gazelle, obviously—more like a turtle climbing stairs. The look on her face told me she knew what I was doing even before I did. Maybe I looked like I was about to take a big chunk out of a roast pig. In any case, she didn't stop me. Didn't encourage me, either. Until I was about an inch away from her face.

"I don't think..." And then she closed the distance.

Andraste's _ass_, but was I nervous. I didn't know what to do with my lips. But she did. At first it was kind of like being melted butter; I couldn't feel my extremities and could control much less. Then there was the arm around my neck and her pressing into parts of me—let's just say it was fairly eye-opening. Although I don't think my eyes were open at the time...

I would have given anything for it to be her blasted, stinky war dog barking—Sten growling—that Antivan clearing his throat. But it was Leliana who _giggled._

I pulled away like I'd been bitten. We untangled ourselves rather clumsily—probably more on my part than hers—and she brushed some strands of hair out of her face while tugging at bits of her armour. Like _she_ was rattled.

"That wasn't... too forward... was it?" I asked, trying to sound like some sort of confident, husky sex god, rather than the bumbling, gawky teenager I felt like.

She took in a deep breath, looked up at me, and held my gaze for a really long time. "No."

It was the softest she'd ever spoken to me; the most vulnerable she had ever appeared.

I should have seen it then.

But I didn't, of course—I've never been that swift. I smiled, probably more red in the face than a tomato, and said, "Oh, good, because I didn't have a backup plan if that fell through."

I thought she wasn't going to find that funny at first. But then there was that laugh.

* * *

><p>When did it first start? Hmmm... Back then, I couldn't find a starting point when I realized what I was feeling. I was too new at all of that. Over the years, the "moment" has changed several times. At first I thought it was watching her in the Gauntlet, walking up to Andraste's Ashes like an old friend. Having to remove our armour and... and <em>clothes<em> to pass a pilgrim's test was a bit nerve-racking for me. And I tried not to stare, Maker's balls, I did. Then there was the time we met that Antivan and she just—took him in! Really, how many people do you know that would take in an assassin that failed to kill you? Honestly. I'd still deny it to most who would ever approach me on the subject, but whenever that elf—_man _looked at her, I... was jealous.

But after years of moodily mulling it over, I realized my epiphany popped well before all that—when we came back to Redcliffe Castle from the Circle or Magi. We brought back the First Enchanter and his assistants to save Arl Eamon's son from a desire demon. And it was no easy feat, I'll tell you, though I'm sure you've heard the story. When we marched past those gates with mages in tow... despite how broken we felt, how _angry_ she looked at the world... I thought of her as magnificent. I certainly couldn't have done the same myself.

So I had to tell her. Naturally, I didn't know how. I decided that by the time we settled into camp again, I would have my script all laid out. It should have been easy—you'd think I had some sort of a stammer the way I go on about not being able to talk to a woman. Being raised in a place that was chockablock full of men would do that to you, I suppose.

Men! I remember thinking. That's how I'll get through this: congratulating a fellow templar on a job well done. Whenever I reminded myself that she _wasn't_ a templar—wasn't the man I was pretending she was—I felt embarrassment crashing down on me like a tidal wave.

While she was just finishing the set-up of her tent, I ambushed her, to put it lightly. "Now that we're back at camp, I want to talk about what happened at Redcliffe."

She looked over her shoulder at me. If you could have seen it, though—alert, accusing, angry—but underneath all that, alarmed.

"I'll hear no more about my decision."

She turned back to her tent and started hammering the peg into the ground with a little more vigour than seemed necessary. Everyone had really taken a chunk out of her on the trip to the tower in the middle of Calenhad Lake. Wasting time, could have done all this a more direct way, on and on and on. Those of us who supported her didn't exactly put an effort in to defend her. We were pretty irritable about the whole journey, too, even though we had to make it sooner or later to enlist the mages; it certainly didn't help that the Circle was in absolute pandemonium when we got there.

"I just wanted to thank you, actually, for saving Connor," I replied, my voice shrinking with each syllable. "You went out of your way for someone. The arl will be grateful. I mean, I'm—I'm grateful."

She stopped pounding the peg into the ground (although by that time it was firmly embedded in the earth), and remained still and quiet. I was going to turn and leave her be when she said: "I need you, Alistair."

"Er—ahem—sorry?"

"I don't think any of that would have happened, had you not been there."

I didn't know what to say. So I did what I normally do in situations like these: I joked. "What's this? Getting all mushy on me now, turning into blubber at the feet of Alistair the Adherent?"

As serious, smart, and smooth as she was, she always laughed at my jokes. At the right times, too. Never had I met someone that could possess all the character of a noble and still be humble with a good sense of humour. "No, just being sentimental," she replied. "Thanks, Alistair."

Leliana suggested to me later that night that I should give her something that reminded me of her. I was going to go with a roast squirrel when it was delicately pointed out that dead rodents probably wouldn't convey the message I was aiming for. So Leliana started rattling off ideas—trinkets, shiny things, poems, delicacies... but I couldn't think of anything of the sort that reminded me of her. I kept imagining worn leather gloves, fine crafted swords and daggers, a bundle of poultices, maybe some trap designs. Finally Leliana came through with an idea. "Flowers are always nice; every woman treasures those."

"I've never cared for those, really, and I don't see the appeal." Morrigan had been nearby collecting water from the pump, shamelessly eavesdropping. "The fact that they are dead gonads makes the thought of them as gifts an ill one."

A flower I could do. I had picked a rose while in Ostagar (making sure that no one saw me do it); by some miracle I figured out how to dry and press it to keep it in mint condition. I had it tucked into my armour during the battle there and somehow it survived the night with me. I would give that to her—it was something females were supposed to adore, and it would have meaning, without being too wishy-washy and degrading for her tastes. I hoped.

We were stuffing ourselves with starchy stew when I dropped it in her lap like a cat might bring a dead mouse to its master. She put down her stew, picked up the flower, and examined it as if to discover its function. "Do you know what it is?" I asked, immediately feeling stupid. Of course she knew what it was, dammit. But maybe I didn't really know what it was, because she weaved it into her hair, gave me the slightest of smiles, and went back to her supper.

"It—was from Ostagar," I began, remembering I had this grand epic tale to share about its importance, to make it so much more than just a dried-up rose. She just kept smiling into her stew, scrambling my brains and making me forget the key points to my story. "I just... thought you should have it," I finished lamely. I swore to myself so profusely that the Grand Cleric would have had my head had she heard.

"I'm sure I'll be able to bring armies to their knees with this," she said idly, taking another spoonful of goopy guck. Then she flashed her eyes at me. Armies of men. Or just a bunch of me's, maybe.

Now... I can barely recall what she looked like.


	2. Part 1,2

Part of the blame falls on me—I should point that out now. Because that... that _kissing_ took place right after we put to work all the old treaties of the Grey Wardens and rallied an army together. Right before the Landsmeet. After that, it became pretty apparent that Arl Eamon wasn't just having a go at me with all this king business. But I still did it anyway.

We went to Denerim to prepare ourselves for meeting the regent Loghain face to face in a battle of cheap insults and angry glares—at least that's how I imagined the Landsmeet would be. To do that, we did her usual—went to clean up everyone's mess, united the otherwise un-unitable, saved Denerim from the clutches of evil so we could properly convince her of what was best for her. That included going to the plague-addled Alienage, where I saw how wretched and grotesque _her_ life had been before I met her, compared to most, and felt subsequently horrible. We battled our way out of imprisonment once or twice. Rescued my... what, ex-half-step sister? No, that's just me beating around the bush. My _betrothed_. It still feels sticky coming out.

To be clear, the thought of actually marrying Anora had not _once_ crossed my mind in all of this. Not even after we swept into Arl Howe's estate and rescued her. She was just the woman who used to be queen, and Eamon was going to wave about some mystical staff and make me king, no qualms or fistfights. But the night before the Landsmeet was actually called... Maker's breath, I hate this conversation. This was both the high and the low point to my dreary, pathetic little life.

My fellow Grey Warden came to see me.

I didn't hear her come in, so when I turned around from my chamberpot to see her standing in the middle of the room was startling to say the least. Which is funny, really, given I wouldn't have batted an eyelash before beheading a darkspawn, had it been there instead of her.

"Uh—oh, um—hi! Hi." I tucked myself into my trousers and did an odd sort of dance as if it would help keep myself concealed.

"Alistair." There was something wrong with her voice, with her eyes. But I didn't catch on.

"Are you all right?" I asked, approaching hesitantly. It was the middle of the night; everyone else was asleep, of that I was sure—except maybe Morrigan. She was bitter about the fine bedclothes and nightclothes the servants kept pressing on her, so she was probably prowling the grounds for a place to pitch her tent. "It's kind of a big day tomorrow, are you...?"

"We need to discuss tomorrow," she said, pointedly turning her head away as she went to the sitting chair in the corner of the room. I watched her light the candle on the chest of drawers next to her. It wasn't until she shook out the match that she finally turned towards me. I sat on the edge of the bed nearest her.

"So... is this the part where you tell me you found another illegitimate child of Maric's?"

She blinked and looked away. "No."

The tension was getting tighter by the minute. "Well... how are you? I mean, after being taken prisoner and everything. Were you hurt? Anora didn't seem remorseful in the slightest for what happened. I mean, she wanted to help arrange your rescue, but... all she does is give a _nasty_ glare. You think someone told her about Arl Eamon's intentions? To make me king, I mean? Must not take kindly to her throne being—what's the word? Deposed? Usurped? Reverse usurped?"

The longer I babbled, the faster the words fell out of my mouth. She didn't look at me the entire time, nor did she make any indication that she was going to talk. The moment I stopped filling the silence, I started to think about things I'm sure I ought not to have been thinking about. I swallowed and stared at the ceiling after glancing at her legs. "Are... you... all right?"

She sighed. "I'm—fine."

"Oh. Good. Dandy. Well, um... what do you need to talk about, then?"

Her premeditation was much longer than usual. Finally she looked up at me, eyes steeled and jaw set. "Arl Eamon is going to suggest an alliance tomorrow."

"An alliance? What kind of alliance? You don't mean with Loghain, do you? Oh, Maker's—don't tell me that's what it is."

"Not exactly." She ducked her head and looked at her lap, her hair falling like a curtain in front of her face. I could see the scars on her knuckles burn white when she squeezed the armrests.

"Are you going to tell me?" I stood and took a few steps towards her; she looked up at me like she expected me to strike her.

"You are to marry Anora."

Oghren would have laughed and said I looked like a stuck nug. It took a few seconds for comprehension to sink in. "What?"

"Don't make me repeat myself."

"You're joking." She stared off into space. "You're joking?"

She stood and walked away from me.

"Don't—hey!" I grabbed her by the arm and spun her around. Her eyes—she looked so_ livid._ "You can't drop something like that in my lap and walk out of here!"

"What else do you want me to say?" Her voice was so low, she may as well have been snarling.

"It'd be a good start to mention _where_ you heard this?" My voice was starting to rise; I could hear my blood rush through my ears. "Why I wasn't present in the conversation, maybe?"

I was gripping her arm so hard but she didn't try to pull away from me. I was getting angrier by the moment as she looked less so, and the woman who was never at a loss for words was standing mute under me. That was when I knew she was part of the arrangement.

"It's the only way—"

"What do you mean, only way? What happened to Eamon announcing my candidacy? The whole point of this was to find someone with a stronger claim to the throne. Who wasn't Loghain's daughter!"

"Alistair, hear me out, please." You couldn't believe how stunned I was to hear her speak like that. Deflated, almost. I released her arm, took a step back, and shut my mouth. She hung her head again.

"You've changed, Alistair—for the better. But I have always known your reluctance to accept Eamon's proposition, your opposition to it, and I understand why. You would make a honourable king, however. And I know now that the only way to secure your safety—your survival—is to put you on the throne. If Anora is supported and given a coronation... she would not hesitate to execute you. Do not doubt that for a second."

The thought hadn't crossed my mind, to be honest. It should have. Anora wasn't the type to let others walk over her—if anyone, she would do the walking. What would I do, were I to be crowned and she to step down? My initial thought was to ignore her. But I knew it couldn't come to that. Especially after it was put plain to my attention how much more _dire_ this whole charade was.

"As for casting Anora aside... well, in the end, it is all up to you, isn't it? No one can force you to take part in a wedding ceremony you do not wish to partake in. However, Anora is well-loved by Ferelden. To cast her off—execute her—would snuff your already faltering reputation. It is also important to remember that Anora has experience as a ruler, as a queen—either one of you could lead Ferelden into a fine future, but together..."

"Together what?" I all but spat.

"Together you would live the best possible life you could lead."

"That's it, then? That was your reasoning for convincing Eamon and—and _her_ that we should just—elope?"

She winced. "Yes."

"What about... what about us?" I choked on the last word; the flush hit my cheeks faster than I could say "bullocks."

"What of it, Alistair?" she said quietly, finally looking me in the eye. "Even if you weren't to marry her, what life could we lead? The most I could be is a servant in your castle. Your whore. This isn't about you and me, if ever such a thing existed. This is about you and Ferelden."

I wanted to yell myself hoarse, argue with her till I turned blue in the face, and shake her until she changed her mind and talked all of them into a better solution. I wanted to change everything, because all of the things I'd been imagining about my future were slipping too fast through my fingers, and suddenly she seemed much farther away than I wanted her to be.

"That's your only solution?"

"Do you have one?"

"Y—"

"You're smarter than this. If you're going to be king, you need to recognize now that politics is in every move you make. You marry Anora, you rule jointly; Ferelden prospers, and you..."

"Live in absolute comfort and finery while being completely miserable and alone?"

This time I shut her up.

"Why this?" I asked, grabbing her shoulders. She was so small in my hands, so bizarrely small.

"Because I—" She looked like I'd stabbed her in the gut.

"Did you even try to convince them of something else? Or was this the first thing you proposed?"

"It is, and I stand by my position."

As much as I hated it, I was starting to see that there was no better way. That really was the optimal outcome of the Landsmeet. And if it secured my life, our country, and our armies...

"I'll do it."

She froze like a statue.

"Do you want to tell her, or shall I?"

"She'll know by tomorrow. It's late." She sounded like she'd woken up from a long nap.

"Well, that's it, then."

"Yes."

"Good."

She was slightly turned away from me, her eyes gazing through the floor at some nondescript spot. I was flexing my fists and glaring daggers at her. But the frustration and angerstarted to ebb, then griefstruck, and I felt like I was sinking through the floor.

"I need a drink."

Out of nowhere, it seemed, she produced a wineskin and handed it to me. I closed my eyes and tilted my head back, emptying the whole bag. With each gulp, I recalled some of my fondest memories, now turned sour. Watching her take down an ogre; sitting up all night at camp, exchanging stories; her smile with the rose tucked into her hair; the way she felt against me when we kissed...

After I drained the wine, I kept my eyes closed, trying to burn that image on the backs of my eyelids forever. I blindly handed back the sack, but she didn't take it. It was the hardest thing to open my eyes, like I was having the best dream and did not wish to wake.

As soon as I looked at her, she pushed the skin aside and kissed me. Hard.

There was something sweet and pungent on her breath—mead. It struck me that she got drunk to come talk to me when she deepened the kiss and practically wrapped herself around me. It was when she moaned that an alarm went off somewhere at the back of my mind and I pulled away.

"What're you—"

"Stop talking."

I gulped. "Right."

I knew I shouldn't do this. Especially after a conversation like _that_. But that warmth, that electricity—_her—_I couldn't deny it. There was no way I was going to resist when I felt her hands trembling at the drawstrings of my trousers.

If it would have continued on like that, I may have been able to forget it easier. Quick, fleeting. But somewhere between taking off our clothes and tumbling onto the bed... well, things slowed down a lot faster than I intended. Her movements weren't urgent anymore. She... well, I'm not the type to get into this sort of stuff, but what happened wasn't what I had ever imagined it to be. It was far more... involved. Intense.

We didn't say anything for hours. As she lay in my arms, I replayed it all in my head. Did I do this wrong? Should I have done that different? What did she think? She wasn't telling me, and I was certainly too scared to ask. The longer we were quiet, the more I could lose myself to the fantasy that this wouldn't be the first and last time.

Eventually I felt like I was sinking in quicksand. That's ironic, isn't it? You don't exactly sink quickly in quicksand. If anything, it's... molasses sand. Boggy. Like I was imploding on the inside, slow and painful. After I don't know how long, I finally whispered, "Where do we go from here?"

I was hoping that all my fears were misplaced. But I was wrong; it was much worse than that. For she gently pulled herself from my arms, put on her clothes with her back to me, and left without a word.


	3. Part 1,3

I wish I could tell you that was the end of it. That our tragic tale ended with one mistaken night of passion. Obviously, everything life had dealt me was not rubbing it in enough, so naturally _this_ had to come my way.

I had donned my armour, taken it off, shined it, and thrown it across the room about three times that night. The official coronation hadn't taken place yet, but I was effectively... king. I wasn't taking it too well. It was surprisingly easy to snap into character in front of my—subjects (I still hate using that word), but harder to convince myself behind closed doors that I was ready for the rest of my life like this. To be honest, I would have rather faced several archdemons than resign myself to royal duty. I was _terrified_. Mostly because the life I knew, the life I thought I would have until I died an untimely death, was coming to an abrupt end.

I wanted to seek her out and talk to her. Find some sort of solace that I was missing. No, even then I knew that I was kidding myself. There was no solace to find, only stolen moments to drink up and cling desperately to. Maybe a few more kicks and punches, bruises and battle scars...

As I was clipping on the last plate in my armour for the final time, she appeared at the door. With Morrigan.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" I said rather dryly. At first I attempted avoiding looking at one, then found myself looking at the other, torn as to whom was more aggravating to have to speak to at the moment.

"Well?" Morrigan said, looking to our companion. She stared resolutely at the floor, her lips sealed tight. Morrigan sighed and turned her hawk eyes on me. "I have a proposition to make."

I was starting to feel like I was caught doing something I shouldn't have; the air was so thick, I was uneasy. "Something tells me I'm not going to enjoy it."

"That depends," Morrigan said, one of those awful grins pulling at her lips.

My danger sense started stirring. "What's going on?" I demanded, turning between the two. Our friend had already turned her back, taking apparent interest in the draperies.

"I did not expect this of you," Morrigan said to her.

"That does not surprise me."

"Will you not tell him? Shall I?"

"Listen, I've had it up to _here_ with everyone talking amongst one another as if I was not in the bloody room! What is this forsaken proposition of yours, Morrigan?"

"Very well, to the point we'll go. As you... _hopefully_ already know, whoever slays the archdemon tomorrow will perish as well. It seeks out the taint and consumes it—specifically the taint within a Grey Warden. Therefore, either one of you will meet your Maker, as it were."

I did know, but only just recently. I had to hear it through another Grey Warden. From out west, of all places. And I had thought all surprises had been thrown my way already; Duncan had touched on the subject once, but he had never actually gone far enough as to explain that little catch in the otherwise promising deal.

I stared at Morrigan, then looked to the other expectantly. She did not turn around.

"There is a way to avoid this, however," the witch continued. "A ritual."

Already I distrusted this plan. Mainly because it came from Morrigan. But I got the feeling I would need to hear this out. "I want her to explain this," I said, pointing at her back. She cringed as if I'd smacked her.

Morrigan rolled her eyes and folded her arms, but I could detect a bit of sympathy on her face. At first I thought it was just something she ate, but I realized that maybe their friendship went deeper than I originally thought. Which is why it must have been so hard for the bravest woman I knew to say: "You're to conceive a child." Her voice was hoarse, like she'd been yelling.

"We... y—I... with?"

"Honestly, what do you _see_ in him?" Morrigan snapped.

At that, she turned on her heel and practically ran to the door. But I wasn't going to let her go that easy—she couldn't just run away whenever she felt like it. She was the one who gave me a spine; I was going to use it. So I ran to the door before she made it there and slammed it shut, her face inches from the threshold. I held the handle and glowered down at her.

"Explain." Even I was surprised at the tone of my voice.

Morrigan made some sort of weird noise akin to a darkspawn gurgling as it died. Really, it was more like a cat purr, but I still squirm when I associate one with the other. "Why, Alistair, anger becomes you."

"Don't ask me to do this," she asked—begged—quietly. _Oh so _quietly.

Something was telling me I ought to back off and give her some breathing room, but I was just so... First she pawns me off on Anora like it's no big deal, then she insinuates some mating dance with Morrigan will kill a dragon—or that may as well have been what was said. I regretted the words as they left my mouth. "Why shouldn't I?"

I could have sworn I felt her shake, even though I wasn't touching her. Then her silent pause before dropping a tonne of verbal bricks on me filled the air around us. "Everything I did up until this point was in the best interests of the masses. What I do now is selfish."

"Selfish." I snorted. "So your idea of selfish is to pass me off to as many other women as possible?"

"Let go of the door."

"No."

"I'd suggest you do as the lady bids," Morrigan said.

"Let. Go."

"Not until someone tells me"—I grabbed her arm and squeezed as I started to shout—"what you're on about!"

She punched me. Not a slap, or anything women typically do in those tales where the man is made out to be a soulless incubi that all men are supposed to be. A _punch_. The kind that spin you around and leave you feeling like you've hit the ceiling when you're sprawled out on the floor in a puddle of your own bodily fluids. But I didn't say that's what happened to me.

When I came to, I was still lying on the floor and Morrigan was kneeling over me. "A woman's wrath hath all the fury of the Dark City, do you not agree?"

"Where is she?" I tried to say. It would have been a miracle if Morrigan had understood me. Might as well have had a mouth full of marbles.

"Come. Let's get you on higher ground." Then Morrigan proceeded to swing me around the room like a typhoon until I somehow landed on my bed. Well, not really, but that's how it felt.

She treated me in the most grotesque ways I'd ever been treated. I mean, she was a mage—Wynne used to be able to heal my wounds by flicking her little finger, why couldn't she? While I thought she was going to make tea, she started chewing on the leaves before spitting it out on my face. I kid you not. Right on my cheekbone. Just _hawked_ it on there. I chose to keep my mouth shut, however; a lesson I learned considerably late, given how often I'd shovelled my way into trouble just by flapping my trap.

It was some time before she spoke. "I certainly did not foresee this when I first set out with you two."

I wanted _so desperately_ to ask her what, but I had just challenged myself to a solitary silence contest and I was doing good so far. That and my face was starting to sting something fierce, so it kept me distracted. She looked surprised that I hadn't bitten her bait, so she continued without waiting on my word.

"What I am offering you will not fully approve of in any respect," she said, "but I ask that you consider it in all seriousness, for the life of a valued friend is in question otherwise."

To my relief she produced a basin of water and wiped her chewed-up weeds off my face. "I've rarely heard you so quiet before, Alistair. Did she relieve you of your tongue when she struck you?"

I would have tried a retort, of course, but mentioning _her_ made me feel like someone considerably hefty was sitting on my chest.

"Well, I will take your prolonged silence as an opportunity to explain this properly. She intends to sacrifice herself in order to rid our world of an archdemon, even knowing an alternative. And while you are not worthy of my personal musings, I have come to find an equal in this woman, and care for her as well as you do. Perhaps not to the same extent, but the thought of her throwing her life away when it can be avoided does not bode well with me.

"So the solution is this: leave me with your seed in order draw away the soul of the archdemon, and give life to an Old God."

"What?"

My contest did not last as long as I'd hoped.

Sleeping with Morrigan I could embrace and love compared to playing god and _making_ one. That sounded a lot like a type of magic the Grand Cleric would blow a casket over. And then some.

"It would be born without the taint... an Old God in its purest form. It's an old form magic, very—"

I sat up, forcing her to back away. "You realize who you're asking, don't you?"

"Oh, believe me. I do."

"Then—how—why—"

"And I was starting to like the new Alistair."

"I don't understand?"

"I didn't expect you to. I cannot get any simpler, however; what I require is a Grey Warden's—"

"Censor, censor, censor—"

"If you wish to act like a child, I will speak to you like one. When a man and woman love each other—"

"_Love_?"

"Enough! You are the only option of saving the country and the woman you _presumably _love."

I wanted to hit Morrigan and crawl away at the same time. Curious feeling. I realized it was the absolute lowest of shame one could ever get.

"I was always bemused as to how such a woman could fall for someone so simpleminded. Be as it may, I respect her desires, and came to her first in order to secure both your lives. Without this ritual, one of you will perish; I can guarantee you she would do everything in her power to ensure she is the one to fell the beast and give her life."

"Why?"

"Why? She has done everything thus far to secure your life. Saving you from your every mishap, ensuring your seat on your silly throne, arranging a marriage for political convenience and security... Now I am doing what I can to secure hers."

_What I do now is selfish._

I'll admit it, I'm dim-witted. I've never tried to convince myself otherwise. Immersing myself in all this information was _impossible_, but what I could get out of it were the basics: She would die without this; I could try to stop her, but I couldn't take that risk—even then I knew she would find a way to outsmart me. She always found a way out.

"I'm supposed to presume that you bring up this solution now out of the kindness of your heart?" I asked.

"No, of course not. This was determined from the moment we met. The only reason Flemeth rescued you both from the battle at Ostagar was because of the convenience you presented for our ends. In the beginning, it was my only intention to perform this magic, on this very night. I have been waiting patiently for this opportunity. Not once did I suspect I would come to find a friend in all this. Which is why I must impose upon you now—do this for _her_."

I almost missed out on most of what was said after she mentioned her mother. _Flemeth_. I felt something queer rise up inside me.

Morrigan motioned to me impatiently. "Well? What say you?"

Of all the horrible endings I could have ever predicted for our doomed romance, I have to say, this would have been one that I'd laugh at and praise my own wild imagination. I had to squeeze my eyes shut to answer. "Yes."

"Wise. I hope you fully recognize the benefits of your decision."

I still had my eyes shut tight.

"I respect that this may be difficult for you, but I do believe it will be much more enjoyable than you might think."

"Please don't."

I waited. Where was that biting remark of hers? She always had one, no matter what came out of my mouth—even if I made animal noises, she would have something to say about it. So the worst decision I made all night was to open my eyes.

She had put the washbasin aside and was leering at me. Ugh, Maker's... she was on all fours, giving me these eyes that looked like a serpent sizing up it's meal.

"What are you doing?" I blurted.

Her face didn't even fall an inch. "What do you think?"

"Right _now_?"

"Would you prefer time to powder your nose?"

"Don't you... have things to—_hey_!"

She took off that top of hers, if you could call it that. I immediately looked away, feeling more like I was about to be tortured than serviced, and then she wrapped it around my face, only leaving my nose free to breathe. Now I was starting to think we weren't on the same page about what exactly I'd be doing to save our friend's life. "Do I have to wear this?" I mumbled through the fabric, purposefully drooling on her clothes.

"Lie back and think of Tevinter," she whispered huskily.

I felt her weight lift off the bed, and I was left with the gravity of the situation. I was actually doing this. With Morrigan—my sworn nemesis and rival. How did I get here? How could it all come to this?

The moment I decided I wanted to get up and leave, I felt Morrigan's breath on my leg.

"What are you..."

Suddenly I forgot about everything that had been haunting me. My skin turned to fire, I lost my breath somewhere between my knee and my upper thigh, and soon it didn't matter if it was Morrigan or the woman I wanted or some other girl. I still hate myself for that.

She did things to me I didn't know existed. I'm not sure how long it lasted, but it was long enough for me to go through a tumultuous storm of guilt, pleasure, and anger. Anger at Arl Eamon for ever considering me as a bloody king, taking away the first glimpse of happiness I'd ever had; anger at Morrigan for being so utterly daft to human empathy; anger at _her_ for giving up on us so easy. Marry Anora. Impregnate Morrigan.

The end was a blur, but I distinctly remember muttering someone else's name than Morrigan's. She climbed off of me, panting like she had just taken out a horde of darkspawn. It took minutes to come down and cool off, but as soon as she unwrapped her top from my face, the light of the room made my frustration hit me in the gut like a battering ram. I wanted to take it out on someone.

"We never killed your mother."

I could see Morrigan freeze from the corner of my eye. Already I knew that I had made the wrong decision; the temperature literally dropped in the room. She turned towards me, skirt half done up.

I didn't repeat myself and she didn't need me to. Slowly at first, she walked toward the door. Then she swept her staff into her hands and bolted from the room so fast, I barely had time to weigh exactly what I had just done and what might happen next.

I jumped into my pants, nearly tripping and clipping my head on the edge of the armoire on the way out. I could hear Morrigan's racing footsteps at the end of the hall, and dread ripped through me when I saw sparks of electricity fly from the end of her staff and light up a dark room.

When I burst through the door, Morrigan was standing in the middle of the room, orchestrating a small, fierce blizzard. The paintings were swept off the walls, sheets and drapes were torn around the room, and in the far corner was a small woman, shielding herself from the spell.

"Morrigan! Stop!" My voice was drowned in the din. I rushed forward with the intent of tackling her, stop the magic, but chips of ice sliced at my face as I tried to get close, foiling my plans. Right—I'm a templar, I remember thinking. It took a little more concentration than necessary to think of what I needed to do to douse the witch's spells. The air rippled around us, abruptly choking off the blizzard. Morrigan threw me the most blood-curdling glare before swinging her staff at me unsuccessfully.

It was just enough time. From the corner she hurtled out, knife in hand, lashing out at her friend like the witch was an abomination. Morrigan caught the blow just in time. Although she wasn't much of a warrior, Morrigan could keep pace with knife work. They weaved around each other like they were doing some sort of elaborate dance. I was caught in a trance watching them when it struck me that I should be trying to stop them.

I caught hold of Morrigan's arms and held her back. She struggled against me like a chained lion.

"When did you intend to tell me you failed to kill my mother as promised, sister?" Morrigan shrieked.

The look on her face... That was true guilt.

The witch wrenched her arms from my grasp and stood her ground. "You realize what you have done, don't you? Or did I not explain myself clearly enough when I asked you to end her?"

First her head dropped low, her shoulders slumped—she looked defeated. "We were no match for her."

"So this was your grounds for lying to me? Were you ever planning on telling me, or did you hope I wouldn't find out until Flemeth _came back for my life_?"

Even I could understand the severity of our crime. Upon finding one of her mother's grimoires, Morrigan discovered that said mother had found immortality—through possessing the bodies of her daughters. This was of course reason enough for Morrigan to ask for help putting an end to her dearest mother's life. I had gone on the trip to the Kocari Wilds to pay Flemeth a visit, the situation described to the party on the way. Somewhere between the ruins of Lothering and Ostagar, the realization struck that even if _one_ legend about this woman was true, then our chances of defeating her were better than all of us sprouting wings and flying off happily into the sunset.

But we pressed on. Our leader could not return to camp, to Morrigan, and revoke her word. So when we met with Flemeth, some words were exchanged—and not on the topic her daughter would approve of. After coming to some questionable terms, of which Flemeth agreed to disappear for a _few_ years and perhaps pay her beloved Morrigan a visit someday, she practically dropped another textbook of her knowledge in our laps and disappeared into the mists of the darkspawn horde.

And in all honesty? I didn't think twice about how immoral it was to lie to Morrigan.

Morrigan advanced on the smaller woman, but she didn't so much as flinch. The witch squared her shoulders. "I would expect this of any other lowlife, but never of you. Do you insult me with a defence?" No words were uttered. "Heed me well, then, Warden—never follow me. If you survive this war tomorrow, take your pathetic life and make sure you never cross me again, for it will be your last."

And that was it. Morrigan stormed out of the room.

Both of us were quiet. Too quiet. Gave me plenty of room to think. What I had just done was irrevocably _evil_. And that's saying something, considering it involved Morrigan, who I thought of as fairly evil. Nasty, stab-you-in-the-back evil. In this case, however, it was us two Grey Wardens who did the backstabbing on an infamous witch of the Wilds.

"I need to be alone," she said.

"Listen—"

"Please."

So I did leave her. Reluctantly, mind you. Now that I think back on it... I shouldn't have left her alone. Because it was our last chance to spend time with one another. But who we could have been was lost even before we had the chance. If I could, I would have given up almost anything to be Alistair the Miserable Bastard again, because it meant I could have said nug nuts to duty and lived a life beside her. A short one, maybe, but worth so much more.

Once I was locked safely back in my own chambers, I realized I had never even bothered to ask what would become of this demigod or whatever that I had helped create. That was the most horrific thing I have ever done my whole life—partake in a pseudo Blood magic seance and give two farts as to the outcome. I distinctly remember the intention to ask Morrigan about it before battle on the morrow, but in the morning, she was gone. It came as a shock to me, though it really shouldn't have, given her climactic exit the night previous.

No one ever saw her again, and no one took it quite as hard as _she_ did.


	4. Part 1,4

_Note: You may have noticed by now, but I take some creative liberties. I have never seen an ending where Alistair and Anora marry, so if there is one and I mucked up the details, pretend its me being hopelessly artistic._

I have dreams about the battle at Denerim. Well, maybe "nightmares" is more like it. One time I remember it played out as clearly as if it were occurring all over again, and I was being forced to relive what nearly happened.

Fort Drakon was swarming with darkspawn. We were cutting through the horde like mud, making our way to the very top of the tower—right where the archdemon was waiting. I can still picture it, clear as day—it was as big as the High Dragon dwelling in the Frostback Mountains, if not bigger. Uglier, certainly. Skin so black it gleamed purple in firelight. The very sight of it... I can't pretend I wasn't terrified. Still am, when it's in my dreams.

All of us fought with everything we had. It was so crowded on the roof, it was any miracle we just didn't shove each other off to our deaths. But when it came to the final strike...

In this dream, Morrigan did not offer a way out. The dragon lay prostrate, ready to die; all it would take was one felling swoop. And I was prepared to do it—I run forward, reaching for my blade, and she shoves me sideways, small as she is, and takes up the sword. Knowing her, it's not because she is the selfless hero type; not because she cares for me so much, she'd rather die than let me sacrifice myself; it's probably because she believes she is less important than I to the country—and thus far more expendable.

But she doesn't make it. The archdemon, in one last burst of energy, flicks its head and tosses her aside like an irksome fly. She soars, clear off the roof, and falls, falls, falls...

The archdemon takes off, the darkspawn remain, and at the foot of the tallest tower in Denerim, she lies like a broken doll, an odd sort of smile on her face...

But that's not what happened. I don't know which dream I've woken up to in colder sweats—that one, or the true version of events. She did, in fact, destroy the beast. I couldn't believe it when I saw it; a beacon of light shot out from its head wound like a godsend, blinding us and subsequently knocking us off our feet. When we all came to, the corpse of the dragon was already half-withered and crumbling away. It blew away as dust in the wind within the hour, as if it had never been, never laid siege to Ferelden.

I was in a sort of daze when we were escorted from the tower. I may as well have just come from training at the Circle, waiting for my evening meal. We had clerics look over our wounds, armies of men and women salute us and pat us on our backs. Not one of us was smiling, I don't think. Couldn't. Felt too surreal. All those months of hard work had paid off, but you certainly couldn't convince me at that point.

Somehow, with my blind luck, I ended up sitting next to the Dragon Slayer. Everyone was bustling about us, cheering and celebrating our recent victory. I felt like a toddler, really; we were seated on the floor against the wall while everyone else towered over us—even the dwarves—oblivious to our presence.

"You did it," I informed her, as if she didn't already know. A grin pulled at my lips. "Some story you'll have to bring back home, huh?"

She turned her eyes on me; they had a dead quality to them that disturbed me a bit. "Home."

I was puzzled at first, but then I tried to put the pieces together. She didn't want to return home—travelling and fighting, that was her life. I didn't want her to go. "This is your home," I tried, hoping I could convince her.

She looked like I just told her we lost the war. "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"I should have never..."

"You saved us all, need I remind you? You are the last one who has to do any sort of apologizing."

She shook her head. "I should have listened to Wynne."

"What?"

"I should have been able to see it myself. From the beginning. We should not have been involved."

I was struck by a dozen thoughts at once, chief amongst them why she was bringing this up now and why she would want to kick me while I was already down.

"I can't stay," she whispered. I shouldn't have been able to hear her, it was so damn noisy in the hall, but suddenly it just seemed to be me and her, no one else. "That night before setting out for the Landsmeet, I intended to put an end to it, and I didn't. You are truly the most honourable, veracious man I have ever met; you make me a better person. And you... mean more to me than you can imagine. I am privileged to have fought by your side, to have been your friend. I... regret it all."

I shrunk and shrunk until I disappeared into the wall. Even when someone realized their king was missing and hauled me to my feet to parade me around, I wasn't there. They asked me over and over to make a speech, to speak to my men, but I kept numbly refusing, trying to redirect them to the leader of my armies. No one could seem to find her, however.

* * *

><p>I don't remember most of my wedding, though I've heard the story many times through my advisers. Not that I wanted to hear it. Especially after the tenth bloody time.<p>

All of Ferelden may as well have been there. I can recall the palace being full of people, most of whom I didn't recognize. Important people, I suppose. Or maybe everyone just wanted to celebrate the end of the Blight by coming to some bastard's wedding. Because a few weeks before, that's all I was to the world—just the bastard mistake King Maric tried so desperately to conceal from court. Now I was in the middle of it and everyone wanted to throw adoring smiles my way. I guess I was relieved that the war was finally over, too, but I certainly couldn't feel an ounce of joy if you shoved it down my throat.

When Anora was led up the aisle by Arl Eamon—Andraste wept, but to see the look on her face. She was far more miserable than I was, and with good cause, I suppose. Having your father executed before you in front of all the lords and ladies of Ferelden wouldn't exactly leave you feeling like roses.

In fact, I wasn't proud of it, either. I'd spent months dreaming of Loghain's end, hoping he would get what he deserved for leaving the Grey Wardens to die. For Duncan to die. But once the Hero swung the sword and smashed his head in... I didn't feel a thing. Was it worth it? I don't know. I thought I couldn't stand him keeping his life. Once he lost it...

Standing next to an ice statue would have been warmer than standing by Anora. She gave the nastiest glare to the Sister presiding over the ceremony—or so said Sister informed me after. I can just imagine it, now—my wife still gives me that look from time to time. Then some words were said. I think I kind of zoned out while some scriptures were recited. After there was some form of assent muttered on both mine and Anora's parts, then I was told to kiss my bride.

Every time we reach this part of the hilarious tale, just about every single adviser cracks up, according to his or her sense of humour. I've heard several descriptions of this over the years... "A blowfish trying to eat an octopus," "Two Shrieks in a scrap," "Drakes in costume at a ball." It was nothing short of humiliating, especially after the fact. Apparently when I went to kiss her, she reflexively went to slap me, but we passed it off as her trying to embrace me. Even given my limited experience, it was the most passionless thing I'd ever felt—I only know this because it's still like that, whenever decorum dictates we have a show of affection.

Almost immediately following was our coronation; no one was wasting time, I suppose—you'd think a second Blight was on its way. We stood next to each other in ridiculously ornate finery and had crowns placed on our heads. Everyone was ecstatic. I don't think I could have brought a smile to my face. Then I caught sight of Arl Eamon at the front of the crowd, giving me this look that meant I should be doing something I wasn't. I racked my brains. What do I do now? Wave?

What would _she_ have told me to do? This whole thing was a facade, after all. Her doing. She would want me to do something that showed unity.

So I tried to reach for Anora's hand and she snatched it away. I remember this moment clearly—one of the few—and I never felt smaller in my life. The way her fingers burned mine as she yanked them from underneath me. I can still recall the feeling every time Bann Wulff nearly pisses his armour laughing at this point of the story.

To say I got drunk is to say the archdemon was a gentle puppy. If Teagan hadn't been there to censor me from the public eye, I'm sure I would have sorely ruined my chances of impressing upon the people as a king. There are flashes here and there of what happened. I distinctly remember hugging a tree and showering it with vomit. Oghren came to keep me company at one point, but do you think I know what we talked about? Probably fine ales and other such strong liqueurs, now that I think about it. Or women. Or the horrible combination of both.

Anyway, the absolute punchline (for everyone else) to this whole tale of woe is the end of the night, before king and queen are ushered into their marital bed. It was up to me to find Anora and take her from the party. Now... had anyone been paying closer attention than some of my present companions, this story could have ended more disastrously. Because that was what it was: utterly, irrevocably, undeniably disastrous.

I went to her instead of my wife.

Of course, everyone knew who our Hero of Ferelden was—a great woman warrior, dark of skin and hair, tall and formidable-looking. While she did fit most of the physical description, the ridiculous mythos surrounding her capabilities made a good chunk of citizens believe that she was a force to be reckoned with—and therefore human. Pretty shallow-minded, if you ask me. Good thing the people who knew her personally were few at the wedding, and that her portraits and bard tales did not do her true justice, for almost everyone recognized the woman in the corner not as the fierce warrior that had taken down hundreds of darkspawn and an archdemon nearly twenty-four hours prior, but a servant at the royal palace.

It makes me sick.

"I should have a word with me... I mean you. Should let me have words."

"What are you doing?" she hissed. "Don't talk to me, we mustn't be seen!"

"Please don't leave me," I muttered, pressing my forehead to hers.

That's when someone surprisingly tough wrenched me away from her and punted me in the right direction. Half the court was laughing; the other half was howling. The king and a servant. Already the rumours started to circulate.

In the end, it was Ser Perth and a few guards that dragged me to our room. I passed out before Anora got there, if she ever even bothered. I'm very confident that we did not actually consummate our marriage that night; I don't think it was physically possible, and my wife does not strike me as the kinky type, at least in the regard that she'd have her way with me while I was out cold.

Even if she wasn't there during the night, she was there the next morning. Or afternoon—I don't think I woke up particularly early.

"I can see you're ready to lead the country," she said sourly. "I've already met with the banns... we're to have a formal meeting once you are dressed and prepared."

My first impulse was to ask her to stop yelling, but then I decided that probably wasn't the best move I could make, given my position and her apparent temper. It felt as if someone had removed my brain and rearranged all the parts before smashing it back in with a hammer. As soon as I sat up, my stomach made to leap out my mouth.

There was a servant there with a basket. I hurled, shamelessly coughing and spluttering as loud as possible—not by choice, of course. Obviously, my new wife was thrilled to be impressed upon this way. "Is this what I have to look forward to for the rest of your reign?"

Already I could feel my reserve wavering. But that small voice in the back of my head told me that I was being the wrong Alistair, the weak one. In _her _voice. So motioning to the basket, I replied: "If Orlais gets frisky, that's what they may look like when I'm finished with them, yes." Then I looked up to the servant and my heart dropped through my stomach.

The elf standing before me... they looked nearly identical. Right down to the slender nose. This girl didn't have the same scars, and she wore her hair tightly pinned behind her, but the resemblance was enough for me to temporarily forget where I was and who I was with.

This wasn't lost on Anora, either. "Am I to suspect you will have... company... here at court?" she asked, guarded.

The servant girl was practically squirming under my stare. When I looked away, I found Anora staring at her as well, but differently. Surprising, really—I could never imagine that woman as green as she looked then.

For all the work that was put into preparing me for this—to be king, to be a better man—it still pained me to admit discreetly that no, I would have no secrets from Anora. The last of weak Alistair showed his face that day, hung over and puking, pining for a woman that would never be his.

Anora didn't seem pleased or put off by that news. But something in her air changed instantly. "Good. Let's prepare you for your country, then."

* * *

><p>"So, I've been wondering... before Duncan came and swept you away to be a Grey Warden, what was life like?"<p>

She never answered any of my questions right away, not ever. She always left this pensive pause, as if she weighed every word and approved it before speaking. "I was going to be married," she said.

"What? You? Really? I have a hard time imagining that."

"So did I, for a long time."

"Wow. Well. Um... so, he was, you know... important to you?"

She started fiddling with things—pieces of grass, pebbles, mabari treats. Avoiding me while she composed her reply. "I hadn't met him before my wedding day. I was angry yet complacent; I could imagine settling down with him, but I felt like I was... murdering part of myself in order to come to terms with it."

"I take it you had no choice in the matter, then?" You can't imagine how relieved I felt to realize this.

"None of us did; our _Hahren_ always set matches, if we hadn't done it ourselves."

"That sounds awful. I can't imagine not having my life in my own hands."

"You don't, Alistair. Almost none of us ever do."

Ah, the wisdom she always bestowed upon me. I hadn't realized up until then that I really had next to no choice in the way my life went. It was always in the hands of others that I barely knew or cared little for me. That's how all of my life had been... how all of it turned out to be.

"He was murdered."

"What? Who?"

"The man I was to marry. He was killed by the arl's men."

"Oh. I'm... sorry to hear that."

She pulled the ring off her finger, and I realized for the first time that it was a wedding band. I stared as she turned it over. It looked like it was on fire the way the light bounced off of it. Instead of putting it back on her hand, she slipped it into her satchel. "This war, Alistair? It will be us deciding how others will live. That is power. I'd sooner give it up to someone else."

Yet she was the most worthy of power and leadership, the most—oh, what was the word?—_magnanimous_ woman I had ever met. If only she could have been...

Even with all this "power" that being king gives me, I never got to hold my own life in my hands. I wonder how she felt holding hers.


	5. Part 2,1

_Let it also be known that I have _not_ played Dragon Age II. Therefore the second half of this story is based solely on a lot of wiki articles and "Let's Play" YouTube videos by Toegoff. After which I discovered I didn't really need to watch it all. Tear. Thanks anyway, Toegy..._

_- Now -_

"There's a prisoner who has been asking for you directly, Your Highness," says Teagan.

I'm hardly surprised. I get told on a daily basis that I have long lost friends, cousins, fellow templars and Grey Wardens trapped in the bowels of the castle for no apparent reason at all; they beg for rescue and restitution, blah blah blah. In the beginning, I cared a bit. Now I'm one of those bastard nobility types that turn their noses up. There's only so much one man can do to keep himself from going evil.

"Did someone inform him to take a number?" I ask. I'm trying to read over the report sent from our diplomats in Antiva.

"I didn't pay it much attention at first, but the jailer informed me of something curious... I went down to the dungeon to see this man directly, and he appeared strikingly familiar."

I straighten from my desk and turn to my favourite bann. "And what was it about him that was so... striking?"

"I believe he may be one of the men who followed your Grey Warden so many years ago," he replies.

Immediately I catalogue all of the people that travelled with us to end the fifth Blight. I pick out the men and rank them in according to likelihood of being imprisoned, and almost instantly I know who it would be. "Does this man happen to be an elf?" I ask.

"Well... yes, actually, he does. His name escapes me, however..."

"I know who he is. What is he imprisoned for, might I ask?" You'd think a king would have more tabs on who his justice serves, but then you would have a real king, not a last minute stand-in. There are too many people going in and out of the dungeons every day; it's disheartening that the king can't actually be a proper practitioner of justice, as hard as I try. I'm no different from gooey, softhearted Cailan, or so Anora tells me. I'm probably worse, actually.

"The... her sword," he says gently. "He stole it."

Vigilance was the last thing that I had of the Hero of Ferelden. Years ago she disappeared, leaving nary a footprint for us to follow other than her discarded weapon. The great Warden-Commander faded into the shadows even as people still celebrated her victories pushing back the Blight not once, but twice. Back then I assumed it was just her nature—she was never one to be the centre of attention, despite being steeped in the limelight for months on end after saving the country and the world. But as time went on and she still had not resurfaced from her recluse, people began to wonder if she was still alive. I still dread the possibilities.

And if _he_ was here to steal it... "Has he been interrogated?" I ask.

"Not yet, Your Grace, I gave the word to wait on your command. I hope the order was not too bold."

"On the contrary," I reply. "I would speak with him now."

"Of course," Teagan says, leading the way from my offices to the stairwell.

Climbing down into the dungeon always feels like I'm entering the Black City. Light slowly fades as we descend further, the temperature drops, and the ambiance goes from happy kingdom to "I'm wallowing in my own feces." Needless to say, I'm hardly down here anymore.

Teagan leads me through a labyrinth of cells and prisoners until we suddenly arrive at the designated one. There's no windows in the cell, so a convenient shadow acts as a drape across the bars; I can make out a figure slumped in the back corner but none of the details of his appearance. Then again, I don't really need to see his features to know it's him.

"Zevran." I have to force the name out my throat. He doesn't even flinch. "I would say, 'Fancy meeting you here,' but I find myself hardly surprised, somehow."

He chuckles. Suddenly all those negative feelings I harboured for him years ago come bounding back.

"I think you are more bewildered than you let on, Your Majesty," he says, slowly standing up and limping to the bars. Maker's breath, but has he changed. There are a few new tattoos on his face, his hair is twice as long and half as lustrous, and he's become so gaunt I nearly mistaken him for a shambling corpse. Where there used to be mischief in his eyes, there is now exhaustion. Listlessness. "I thank you for coming to see me, however."

"Don't thank me yet," I warn. Former allies or no, I liked Zevran as much as I trusted him. Which is to say I'd sooner put my life in Morrigan's hands again, Maker forbid. "You've been charged of stealing Vigilance?"

"Of _attempting_ to steal, more specifically," he corrects with a deadpan grin. "Yes. Snuck into the armoury by the cover of night and tried to take the weapon from right under your nose."

He lets that hang in the air while I study him with narrowed eyes. I can't puzzle this out, so I have to ask, "Why?"

"Well... I was hoping you would come ask me that very question," he answers. "But I'm afraid my information is not for... delicate ears, shall we say?"

"Whatever you have to tell me, Bann Teagan needs to hear as well," I say firmly. It's come to my attention over the years that I am far too much of a pushover, despite my efforts not to be, and I am persuaded and assuaged easily, more often than I care to admit. So I fervently decide there and then that Zevran will _not_ be able to convince me of making Teagan leave this particular wing of the dungeons.

"That is all fine and well," he says, "but I can assure you now that you will not want more souls in this conversation than necessary."

"It seems to me that you're the prisoner here, charged of a crime, and on the wrong side of the bars," I remind him.

"Am I?" Zevran questions, "or are you the one... what were the words? Living in absolute finery while being completely alone and miserable?"

Not the exact wording, but close enough to hit home. He had talked to her. She had told him about that night she condemned me to my fate as king. What else had she told him? Probably enough for him to know the phrase would have plenty meaning for me. My blood must have instantly drained from my face, because Zevran gave me these eyes that meant he knew. Dangerous eyes.

"Teagan... would you leave us?" I ask carefully.

"Your—Grace, are you sure?" I'm not looking at him, but I can hear the look on his face, clear as day. He looks at me like I'm a dumb buffoon more often than he knows, I think.

"Sure." I say it like a kid who's scared to go to bed in the dark.

So much for standing my ground.

Teagan leaves without another word, his footsteps the only thing that ring in the corridor. Once he's rounded the corner, I step up to the bars and grasp them tightly, eyeing Zevran with the most menacing glare I can muster. "Talk."

And so he does, without hesitation. "I did not intend to leave with the sword. I let myself be caught."

"Funny. Doesn't sound like you."

"Which part? Leaving without my bounty, or letting myself be caught?"

"Stealing."

"Yes, not exactly my forte, that. But it was necessary, after other means of catching your attention failed. Honestly, Alistair—ah, _Your Highness—_you are a hard man to have an audience with these days."

I snort derisively. I can't believe it. This ex-assassin risks death to get a hold of me. If that's the case, however... "Why did you need to see me?"

"I had something to give you, but it was taken from me upon my imprisonment. I found it fitting that I try to take back what was hers in order to give you what was yours."

"Kindly cut the cryptic crap," I snap. But immediately I'm flying a mile high, although I do everything in my power to conceal it. As I try to figure out which question to ask next, which would be most strategic, he backs away from the bars and slumps down on the ground. I'm about to ask if he's all right, but I think better of it. Worse of it is more appropriate, I suppose. I notice there's no water or food in his dishes. With an inexplicable pang of sympathy, I pull my wineskin from my belt and shove it through the bars, dropping it in his bony lap before I can change my mind.

He drinks it without saying anything. I suppose he recognizes at this point that thanking me would have the opposite effect intended. After he's had his fill, he slides the sack back through the bars. Still he is silent.

"When did you last see her?" I ask.

"A month, maybe more," he tells me.

Suddenly my elation turns to dread. Take back what was hers in order to give me what was mine... "Is she still alive?" I don't know if I want to know the answer.

"That, I'm afraid, I cannot say," Zevran says with a sigh.

"Why not?"

"I do not know. I have not seen her. She could have very well died since we last met."

I just about reach through the bars to strangle him. I settle for kicking at them instead, giving him a startle. "And you can just—talk idly about her life as if it were meaningless?"

"Quite the opposite," he replies slowly, looking up at me like I'm about to draw his blood. "She is as important to me as she is you." I could argue against that point, or I could keep my big mouth shut for once.

But I have questions to ask. "The sword... where is it?"

"Alas," he says cheekily, "I am of no use to you tonight."

"So you _attempt _to steal a national treasure to get my attention and then accidentally lose it somewhere between your getaway and your incarceration?"

"As it turns out, the idea to steal Vigilance was not my own. But it served well to my ends."

"Give me one reason why I shouldn't leave you to your judgement," I growl.

"I can give several," he replies evenly. "I am your honoured ally and friend; killing me would not look good to your people, especially the elven community in which you so desperately wish to impress upon; and most importantly, I am but one of the few left who know the location of the famed Warden-Commander."

"Then tell me, Crow, where is she?"

He cocks his eyebrows and shrugs.

"You're serious? You're not going to tell me?"

"My lips are sealed."

"Then until you change your mind, I'll be doing important kingly business," I say, turning on my heel and storming down the hall.

"And until you change your mind..." he echoed back. I filled in the sentence myself.

I always thought that finding a clue to her whereabouts would make me feel... spry. I don't know, young again. Now I was so enraged I could have busted down every wall of the castle until it fell down around me.

Teagan was at the top of the stairwell. "I hope the meeting was... instrumental," he says.

"Hardly. Where are those reports on Hawke? I want to yell at something. Someone." I stormed past the bann without even a glance. Even after all these years, Zevran could still have quite the effect on me.


	6. Part 2,2

I suddenly became very interested in the goings-on of my dungeon. The jailer was surprised with my direct orders; King Alistair almost always sent word by someone else these days, but now he's prancing around the dungeon like a child at a zoo. No one could figure out just why I was so fervently concerned about the elf, even given his crime. I came twice a day to see if he had asked for another audience. Of course, he did not.

I wasn't going to bow under pressure. "Friend" or not, he was the one who was between a rock and a hard place, not me. _He_ would have to speak first.

His public execution is in two hours. I can hardly sit, I'm so damned anxious.

For the past few days, Anora has been nagging at me. Not that it isn't a regular occurrence, mind you, but she's noticed a particular swing in my mood and she's been honing in on it like a wasp on a stinging rampage. "A proper king would keep his head about him." "A true leader never lets his wits weaken and his guard slacken." "The husband I've known for the past ten years would not mope about like a stricken child." Blah blah blah. Like she's never had a bad day in the last decade.

I feel like my distress should stem from letting an old ally die, but it's really because the only lead I have on _her_ is about to slip through my fingers. But this is important, right? Justice served and all that? I could find other leads. I could. I could find her on my own.

"It's time, Your Majesty," says Teagan.

Nug nuts.

I stand up from the drawing table and follow my adviser out the door. The halls seem to grow longer and narrower as we traverse them. My head spins. I have to think of a way out of this, have to decide what I really want. All right, if he tells us where the sword is, I'll wave the execution and give him a sentence. If he tells me where the Warden-Commander is, I'll grant his freedom, time served. If he chooses to say nothing... well, the gallows for him. Yup. Yes. Done.

Oh, balls, but this crowd is _huge_. Half of Denerim decided today was a good day to go to a public execution, apparently. I swallow and avoid looking at the crowd as I cross the stage to my seat. Anora usually comes with me to these things, but today she has an audience with the Orlesian ambassador, and can't be bothered to attend the execution of a petty thief. I don't know why I suddenly want her nearby. Maybe because now I'm the only royal to focus on. As I sit, I feel a lot of eyes on me, and Maker, are they heavy. For a few minutes I feel like I'm at a ridiculously large and awkward dinner party with a lot of guests; no one says anything until Zevran is carted on stage, a bag over his head.

The crowd swoops up in an outrage. They spit and snarl and shout their objections to this foul injustice. All of the sudden there are a lot more elves in the crowd than I first realized. Obviously I failed to receive the memo that this would _actually_ cause a stir. Why did the people love the Crow so much? Do they all remember him from the Blight? Is it just because he's an elf? Or is it because the people feel they haven't had something substantial to complain about for a long time?

Zevran's bag is torn from his head. He looks twice as dead in sunlight as he did underground. The people howl even louder.

I groan inwardly as I get to my feet. I'm used to saying these words, but never like this. "By the laws of the crown and in the eyes of the Maker, I hereby sentence Zevran Arainai—" The crowd drowns out the rest of my Prisoner's Eulogy, as I like to call it. I say the rest of the words, subtly flicking my fingers as if I'm conducting an orchestra. It helps me slip into this numb state, almost like sinking into a hot bath, and suddenly I'm not concerned about what might happen in the next five minutes like I've been fretting about for weeks.

"Do you have any last words?" I ask the prisoner. Gosh, this is like floating on thin air. He may as well be Andraste's killer or my long lost cousin—I could care less either way.

But that deflates easily once he turns his eyes on me. The crowd goes silent at just the opportune moment, so everyone in the city hears him say, "The item I sought to give you—only I know where the key is that unlocks its box."

Oh... _drake dung_.

By some fault I've given the go ahead to the executioner. He guides Zevran under the noose, tightens it around his neck, then heads down the steps to go kick out the prop under the trap door that will ultimately snuff out the wisp of a man. The louder the crowd shouts, the quieter my world gets. I watch Zevran closely, my eyes boring into his hunched back as I will him to just _say something more_.

When the executioner kicks the prop once, I jolt; someone in the crowd shrieks. It stays in place, just barely holding the door closed. Zevran stands there limply like an old dog waiting patiently; his shoulders sag and his head droops like he's tired. The executioner kicks a second time—the prop shifts by a foot and the door gives way by a few inches, causing Zevran to sway on the spot. I realize that I'm clenching my fists and holding each muscle in my body taught. Will not fold, will not fold, will not fold... The third kick is posed—

"Stop!" I shout before I know what I'm doing.

Half the crowd up front stops shouting to look at me expectantly; the executioner stumbles back onto both feet. Great. This doesn't look foolish, does it? I've never been in this situation before. What do I do now?

Instead of waiting for the executioner to come untie Zevran from the gallows, I tromp forward to the platform and unleash him myself. The tone of the crowd changes, though it's not exactly cheering—I can't tell what they think about this. Not much room to think on it, however; Zevran watches me as I fumble with the knot, and as soon as it's untied, I lead him away from the noose and usher him quickly to the doors. He says nothing, which I'm glad of—I'm imagining him say hundreds of things and I certainly don't need him saying any of them out loud.

When my spine reverted back to jelly, I'm not sure. I hope I don't regret this.

* * *

><p>Not one hour later, the whole of Denerim is squabbling as I treat the man who had been sentenced to death to some cakes and tea in my personal chambers. Anora came by at one point, pounding on my door, but I ignored her varied threats and insults. "She has managed to keep her fire alive after all these years, no?" Zevran asked.<p>

"Unfortunately."

I want desperately to ask him questions I've been forming carefully over the past few weeks. Many an hour had been spent mulling it over—I knew Zevran wasn't the most clever of us, but he certainly was far more clever than I back then, and probably still is, so I had to steel myself properly. I _would_ get the information I wanted from him this time. This time, for sure. He wouldn't trick me out of it. No.

Anyway, the conversation was constantly put off—first I ordered new clothes to be brought in for him, but once he was changed he only dirtied them, so I sent for a bath to be made. The bath took _forever_. Once he was cleaned _and _dressed, I made to start my interrogation, but his stomach grumbled louder than an enraged ogre, so I had food brought to the room. He had the guile to make requests. Despite wanting to show him his place... he got what he asked for.

I glare at him menacingly as he licks the frosting off his fingers. There's this smug, satisfied grin on his face and I want to swipe it off badly. He must get some sort of vibe from me, for finally he turns his eyes in my direction and says, "I knew you would bow under pressure."

"Not a good start to a thank you," I quip.

"What you seek is still in the dungeons," he says as if he hadn't heard me. I stop mid-glower and perk up. Right, that's why I didn't have him killed. When I don't offer a reply, Zevran looks at me expectantly and says, "Shall I send for it, or...?"

"I want to talk first."

"Certainly, Your Majesty."

"Don't call me that."

"As you wish."

I take a deep breath. Here goes nothing. "How long have you been in Ferelden? Exactly?"

"Exactly? I would have to say... sixty-three days or so. The dungeon is quite... disjointing from time above."

"How did you get here?"

"I walked."

I balk. "Oh—uh—really?"

"Of course not. How else did you think I got here?"

"I don't know. That's why I asked."

"What does it matter?" Zevran asks, not sounding the least bit impatient.

"It doesn't," I say, but it matters to me entirely. I store away the information for later. I clear my throat, thinking the hardest part was done and over with. "Who wanted to steal the sword?"

He seems to weigh his words before he speaks. "An old friend, appointed by the Crows," he supplies.

"Really? What would the Crows want with a sword? And why would a Crow ask a former one for help?" The questions are flowing like he's turned on my tap.

"I cannot answer everything in plain truth, but what I can, I will offer you."

"Need I remind you that I saved you from your hanging?" I say, folding my arms across my chest.

He smiles, just a bit. "How do you know I wanted you to?"

"Because you pretended to steal a sword to talk to me!"

"True. But I did not cajole you into untying me from my fate, as it were."

"Didn't you?" I say, mimicking him poorly: "Oh, by the way, there's a key to the item I meant to give you, so if you kill me, you'll never get anything..."

He just stares at me. I give a great huff like a petulant child. "Fine. Speak."

"It is quite the chain, really. The Crows have no interest in the sword, but the money of their employer. Therefore, someone hired the Crows, who in turn appointed an old comrade of mine, who I then sought out secretly. If it is known that she conspired with me, she will die. Which is why I made the theft look like I was trying to steal it from her, sort of frame myself. I then caused the distraction to allow her to escape."

I have to chew the words before I can process them. "It didn't bother you at all that you were stealing _her_ sword for someone else?"

"Quite the opposite, really."

"Why?"

"Because she wanted it to happen."

Every time he mentions her thoughts or feelings directly, I freeze up as if she'd said them aloud to me in the same room. I sit back in my chair. "Did she ask you to come to me?"

His grin slides off his face. "Yes."

"Why didn't she come herself?"

Zevran stalls, picking at the crumbs on the plate in front of him and nibbling at them halfheartedly. "I think she'd rather you did not see her."

Why does it still sting? It's been years. For some reason I've been clinging to the hope that I would see her again in the future. I'm still clinging to it desperately, even now, when Zevran tells me pointblank she'd rather it never happened.

"So. Where's the sword?"

"I cannot tell you."

Didn't think he would answer that. I'll have to deal with that later. "Where's the key to this box?"

"Nearby. Send for the box, and I will show you."

I ask Jia—my assistant, as I like to call her—to go get the box from the jailer. There's a few minutes of uncomfortable, tense silence between me and the Antivan before she returns with the package. It's small, wooden, scratched up to the nines and insignificant-looking. But I've never seen a finer treasure.

I beckon her to put the box on the table after realizing I've been staring at it a bit longer than seemed appropriate. She goes to stand by the door again. "Well?" I say. "Now will you show me where this key is?"

Zevran gingerly picks up the box, turns it over, and slides his finger down the middle. He then traces across the invisible line like a cross, and a piece of wood shifts and clicks into place.

"Really? The key is on the box? You had me spare your life for that?"

"I had you do nothing. Besides, Alistair, I hardly believe you would have figured out how to open it in the first place."

"Yes I would," I say defensively.

"Truly?"

"I'd just smash it open."

There's something in his face that changes, and I find myself wanting to take him seriously for the first time ever. He looks _pained_. "I believe you would have regretted that," he says, then lays the box on the table in front of me, lid wide open.

A dried-up rose lies inside, withered and wilted like it wishes it had died long ago.


	7. Part 2,3

It can't be the same rose, but it may as well be. I can imagine it weaved in her hair still. Her smile... I only saw it a handful of times.

I lean over and reach for it but I don't dare touch the thing, lest it burst into dust. I was expecting trinkets, a letter maybe. A lock of her hair, if I could be so romantic. This is... too much.

"She gave this to you," I mutter.

Zevran turns away. "Yes."

"Did she tell you what it was?"

"That it was a rose? Or it was a message?"

I glower at him. "What is it you know?"

Zevran gives pause. "That she wished to... say goodbye."

The only way a king can lick his wounds and still be king is to become impassive and stoic. I've gotten pretty good at it over the years, I think, but now it's harder than usual to look like I don't care. My hands are shaking a bit. I lean back in my seat, still staring at the rose. Like a corpse in a coffin.

"Jia... would you take our guest to his room? I'll send for him later."

"My King," she mutters, approaching Zevran's side. She bows, motioning for him to stand and follow. Zevran gives me heavy eyes, like I was shoving him back in the dungeons or something.

"I don't intend to let you go," I say matter-of-factually, as if he'd asked me a stupid question. "But don't think you can ask for anything and get it—you're a guest, but you're not my friend. Jia, make sure he doesn't get pampered."

Giving this sardonic bow—well, sardonic-looking in my eyes—he turns and leaves the room with Jia. Now all I'm left with is that rose. This ashen, derelict rose.

* * *

><p>If I spent the previous weeks brooding, I spent these past few days in absolute misery. To see me at my audience chamber was... disastrous. And you can imagine how much of a fan Anora was of that.<p>

She sweeps into my room like a witch with wings. "And where exactly do you get off dismissing half the cases brought to you?" she snaps.

"On the basis that most of their problems should have been taken up with my sergeant before coming to me," I drawled. Really, what is the point of appointing middle men if people jump to the end of the line all the time?

Anora didn't have a remark. I turn to entice one from her when my head snaps right 'round—the slap not registering 'til well after the sting kicks in.

"What has gotten into you?" Her voice is so low and threatening that my stomach gives a little lurch. "This is... _beyond _pathetic! Do I have to relieve you of your duties?"

"No. I could relieve you of your tongue, though, if you'd care to continue," I say, rubbing at my cheek.

Her eyes darken to a level never before seen. "You dare threaten me?" she growls. "I am the one trying to keep your rule in check. You make such a mockery of the crown that people laugh at you daily, and all you do is sit in your room and mope about—whatever it is you have to mope about!"

She never knew. I intend to keep it that way. "I don't have to explain myself to you."

"No! Apparently you don't have to do anything!" She turns and marches back out of the room, not bothering to turn and face me as she says: "This is not about you or I, dear husband, this is about Ferelden."

As the door closes, it echoes, and I slowly slouch down in my chair. Wasn't that quite the throw back? _This isn't about you and me, if ever such a thing existed. This is about you and Ferelden. _Damn her, Anora was right. Just like _she_ was right. Bigger things were always at play.

I bolt to my feet and go to my drawing desk. Reports are scattered over it like forgotten notes. I rifle through them until I find an inventory of traded goods at the docks. Each receipt is dated, and I flip through them until I find the the date I'm looking for. _Sixty-three days or so. _The only ship to dock anywhere near then is one from Antiva. My eyes widen as I stare at it. I knew it. That's where she is.

With a destination in mind, I look for the report on the country sent to me weeks ago by our diplomat—the one I was prepared to examine before Zevran knocked at my door and subsequently stomped my life to tatters. Reading through the report, it's clear to me that there's an opening; something to be done for international affairs in Ferelden. And an opening for me. Who says what's best for the country can't serve its king just as well?

I run through the halls, looking for Anora. All the servants are baffled at my energy, some darting their eyes here and there in fear that I might hurt my queen instead of just talk to her. But I have a plan, and I want her to pour some of her wisdom into it.

When finally I find my wife in her precious library (scouring maps, of course), I nearly shout, "I want to make a royal address in Antiva."

Anora straightens slowly and turns toward me, the ghost of disapproval on her face. "You _what_?"

"Right now there is civil unrest," I explain, waving the report about like an excited child at a game of Capture the Flag. "People are none to pleased that yet another bastard king has taken the throne who is no different from the rest. According to these findings, martial law has taken over the capital and taxes are soaring higher every day. It won't be long until the plump king has an _accident_ and another one takes his place."

Anora stares at me impatiently. I stare back. "And?" she snaps, waving her hand at me to explain further.

"Antiva is a main supplier of luxuries and trading goods; if the current trend were allowed to continue, there would be an eventual crash, and the entire country will eat itself up. What I wish to do is propose a free trade treaty and advances for Antivans to work in Ferelden."

I didn't think she'd be pleased with my planning skills. I wasn't wrong. "You are proposing to hire foreign workers for Ferelden?" she asks. Rebuttal is already ringing in her tone.

I nod, unperturbed. "Since the mass exodus, our lands have recovered, but not the population necessary to rebuild."

"And what of the Fereldens who fled to the Free Marches? You do not intend to pay their way back to their homes?"

As much as I feel guilty for it, I shake my head. "It's been ten years. They've moved on and settled down. Besides, offer homes for a few and all will want passage, accommodation, and financial assistance. Trying to re-root Fereldens will debt the crown for decades more. It is more to the country's interests to improve affairs in Antiva and stabilize conditions here."

I may keel over and die, could looks kill. "Have you truly grown heartless over these years?"

Throwing her heated eyes, I say, "Have you grown soft?"

Anora sighs and knocks over a map marker. "I suppose... you're right. As much as I hate to admit it. It's what needs to be done." She waves her assistant forward. "Arrange for word to be sent to King Marcel XIV of a royal visit. Nothing extravagant; a quiet meeting. Make preparations to be off as soon as we receive word back from him." Her assistant (_what_ was his name? Charlie? Chandler?) takes a bow and leaves briskly.

"What other affairs do we have to discuss?" she asks.

"None at present."

"Good. I presume you will let our counsellors know?"

"I'll send word immediately."

She nods. As she returns to her maps and I turn to leave, she calls my name. "I'm glad to have you back," she offers. I only nod and go.

It hits me full-force when I return to my chambers: I'm actually making headway. I just may find her again.

* * *

><p>Zevran wouldn't tell me where our friend was and I was starting to realize he never would. But I wouldn't toss him to the winds so easily; after realizing I couldn't put him back in the dungeons, and I certainly couldn't keep him cooped up in my castle forever, I decided to... how to put it? <em>Hire<em> him. That's a term he'd be familiar with, anyway.

"Are you sure, Alistair?" he asks after I make my proposal. "I feel the public may not take kindly to enlisting a prisoner in your ranks."

"I learned that the public often doesn't like the stink of my shit, either," I rebut, "but that doesn't stop me from using my chamberpot."

His lips twitch. "Are you comparing me to your waste?"

"No." I turn and look at him. "I'm telling you that no one could change my mind: I want you to be on the royal guard."

"Well... such an offer cannot be denied, but I must ask... why?"

I'm not sure if he'll accept if I tell him why first, so I press, "I need your word, Zevran—will you be my man?"

He looks utterly baffled, but shrugs and nods. "Yes, if you wish it so."

"Good." I huff and stand up, starting to pace. I can't be on eye level with him if I'm going to be honest. "I need an old Crow to fend off the flock; Anora and I will be travelling to Antiva, and we need protection."

Something dark crosses Zevran's face. "You know the Crows still search for me there. I will be a target as much as you."

"Not if you're not recognizable. No, we give you an alias, a disguise, and a dozen men to command, and soon you're no different than the next hired hand," I say. "And... should anything happen to you, or to I and Anora, then Antiva will have effectively ended a beneficial alliance to their people, and will sorely suffer from the losses."

That didn't assuage the Antivan. He folds his arms over his chest defensively. "What reason have you for going to Antiva?"

"To propose a trade of skilled workers and a tariff relief," I say simply.

His eyes... he doesn't trust me. "Is that all?"

"Yes." _No_.

Zevran is still stiff when he replies, "Then my life is yours, until forfeit."

I snort. "Isn't that along the lines of what you told _her_?"

"Yes. And it still holds true."

I don't know whether or not to feel nervous about that. "We leave within the month. Until then, you'll be master at arms for new recruits. Do you accept?"

He only nods. Zevran always has a comment for almost everything.

He's on to me.


End file.
